Heaven Forbid
by run-and-remember-me
Summary: Dean Winchester is a devout young man, and in his nightly prayers, he only asks for one thing—he wants to fall in love with some nice normal girl. So Heaven sends him Castiel. Based on a Tumblr prompt. Canon compliant. Lots of fluff and angst. In progress.
1. A Desperate Hour

Chapter 1: A Desperate Hour

Long before his messed up life made him into a cynical force to be reckoned with, Dean Winchester had strong faith. It was the only thing that kept him going in a world of so much sickening evil. When the motel cabinets were empty and he was stretching his last dollar to buy Sam a bag of potato chips from the local gas station, it made his job a little easier knowing there was someone out there besides his father looking out for him.

In all of his family's turmoil, Dean had to admit that he didn't see a light at the end of the tunnel. His only hope was to run away from the world and settle down with a ordinary girl. So he prayed for a way out of his life. All he wanted was for some nice girl to come along and love him. Of course, no one would give Dean more than one night stand with his level of emotional baggage. Some kids he knew may have also come from bad home lives, but no one had to deal with the ghosts that he did.

From town to town, Dean would ask for guidance in his life as often as he could. Sometimes he could feel the Holy Spirit with him; other times, he couldn't. Nothing ever changed. Until one fall evening in 1996.

Dean had just dragged in late that evening after a salt and burn in Pontiac, Illinois. Sam was already asleep in the motel room as a result of working hard all day at school. Their father was somewhere a few towns over tracking a kitsune.

He was almost ready to turn in for the night when he heard an electric spark from behind. Several explosive sounds followed, and Dean began to wonder why Sam wasn't awake. His hunter reflexes should be going haywire, but for some odd reason, Sam didn't move an inch. Dean pulled the .45 that he always kept nearby, and instinctively aimed at the lamp light that flickered off only moments before.

Dean suspected demons were behind the electricity problems, but second-guessed that observation when he realized the doors and windows were already salted. Surely, Dean looked like a madman, waving a gun wildly at the ceiling without a clear target.

"Hello, Dean," a gravelly voice came from behind him. Dean spun on his heels in surprise and readied himself to fire on this potential threat. Through the dim light from the outdoor lamp post, he observed the shadow. Dean slowly realized this person must be harmless. If he were going to hurt someone, he would have already made their move.

Dean lowered the gun and asked, "Just who the hell do you think you are?"

"I am Castiel," a young man replied dryly. He stepped out of the shadows to reveal that he had dark hair and a muscular frame hidden under a tan trench coat.

"I mean, what are you?" Dean pressed, his voice rising.

Castiel's head turned slightly, knitting his eyebrows in confusion. As if Dean didn't know who he was. After all, he had prayed for him. Castiel examined the abyssal green eyes before him, but couldn't find any evidence of recognition. He sighed. This was going to be a long night of explanations. "I'm an angel of the Lord," Castiel informed him. "You requested guidance in your endeavor of seeking true love."

"So... what?" Dean asked in confusion. "I pray for love, and the man upstairs sends me a wingman? Literally. What makes me so special?"

"The Lord works in mysterious ways, Dean," Castiel responded in a textbook answer. Dean was so frustrated at the moment, but he couldn't tell Castiel to fly on up back to Heaven. He needed an escape from this life. He needed love. "God cares deeply about you," Castiel continued.

"But why me?" Dean pressed further. "I mean, if He fulfills every promise, what about these drunken lovesick schmucks out on Valentine's Day? What about them, huh?"

"As I said, He works—" Castiel began.

"In mysterious ways," Dean finished sarcastically. "Yeah, I know."

"There are plans for you, Dean Winchester. Very important plans," Castiel said suddenly with a tone of urgency in his voice. "So I suggest that you forget your blasphemy and listen to what I am saying. I am here to find you a suitable mate. One which will give you the love and companionship you are seeking. Now, I propose we get started right away, but it seems in the mortal world of high school, many of you are in the business of procrastination."

"Yeah, okay," Dean agreed, slowly warming up to the idea of having his own guardian angel be his matchmaker. "What are you, some kind of cupid or something?"

"No," Castiel answered solemnly. "I am a soldier."

"Then why did God send you to take care of me?" Dean asked in confusion. "I mean, isn't that more of a job for the guys with fluffy wings and a bow and arrow of love?"

"As I have said before, my Father works in strange ways," Castiel clarified. "However, what I do know is that I was sent here to guide you. I'm just following orders," he said simply. Dean nodded in understanding, but still found himself questioning in the back of his mind. "And for the record, there are many cupids that are lower-order angels scattered around the globe. Why they were not sent in my place is beyond my comprehension."

"Okay, so... you said your name was Castiel?" Dean asked. He was internally generating a nickname for him that would be easier to remember. Nerdy Dude With Wings was fitting, but most definitely too long.

"Yes," he replied.

Dean thought for a moment and asked, "What name is in the school directory?"

"Jimmy Novak," Castiel answered, glancing down at himself. "This is... a vessel."

"You're possessing some poor bastard?" Dean asked incredulously.

"To be fair, he is a resident of Pontiac, Illinois, and he does attend this high school," Castiel explained.

"What about his family?" Dean questioned further.

"He is currently in the custody of his great aunt," Castiel responded. "She is a very kind woman, though she is known for her alcoholism. Most likely, she is in a drunken stupor as we speak."

"Okay," Dean said in acceptance. "Let's get this show on the road."

"Not so fast," Castiel said, stepping forward to rest a hand on Dean's shoulder. "I must work with and understand you before I can assume my duties as matchmaker."

"What?" Dean snapped. "But I need help."

"Oh, you most definitely need help, Dean Winchester," Castiel replied. Dean wondered if it was possible for an angel of the Lord to understand sarcasm. Maybe Sassy Cassy... _Cas_. "I am here to remedy that," he continued. "However, you cannot truly know a person until you've seen how they react to the best and the worst circumstances. In other words, I must be in your presence quite often. Now, if you don't mind my asking, what kind of time frame am I working with?"

"As soon as possible," Dean said.

"Well, I suggest that you complete your homework first," Castiel demanded.

"Dammit, Cas," Dean growled. He suddenly wondered why he said the pet name aloud. "I didn't ask for this. I need someone to fix me up with a girl."

"I understand, Dean," Castiel said slowly, but Dean knew he actually didn't understand. "There is much more to a relationship than beauty and sex. You must consider your own personality a reflection of what lies deep within. When you learn yourself, then you can learn how you best interact with other people."

"Would you stop with the mumbo-jumbo crap?" Dean begged in exasperation.

"For example, you seem to be an extrovert, but underneath your hyper-masculine shell, you draw your true energy and peace from inside," Castiel said, his bright blue eyes narrowing as he began an analysis on Dean. "Let me guess. You love your small circle of family, but you prefer to be alone. Put on your headphones and crank up the Black Sabbath on your Walkman?"

"Cas," he pressed angrily. "This isn't funny. I don't like this whole psychic thing."

"I agree. This is a moment that can be spared of laughter," Castiel said dryly. "Also, if you ever run across someone who claims to be psychic, they are most likely pathological liars with a need for attention. True psychics are rare and have a very special ability—"

"Enough!" Dean whisper-shouted in exasperation. He lowered his voice, careful not to wake Sam. "Spare me the details about freakin' psychics and stop analyzing my personality. Okay? It's just creepy. You might be here to snag me a lady, but while you're here, you're human. And that means you've gotta fit in."

"Of course," Castiel agreed solemnly.

"That means you've gotta ditch that trenchcoat if you don't want your head to end up in a toilet bowl," Dean snapped. "And no formal sentences. No one actually talks like that in real life."

"Okay," Castiel replied dutifully. "We will start first thing after school tomorrow. In the meantime, you must rest."

"What about you?" Dean asked in concern.

"I'll watch over you," he responded without hesitation.

"That's... not going to happen," Dean concluded. There was no way he was going to let this random dude watch him as he slept.

"Sure it is," Castiel said simply. "I don't sleep. I'm an angel, remember?"

Dean nodded to acknowledge that he remembered this fact about angels. Then he frowned as he realized a certain fact about humans—specifically, his father's conservative views. "Yeah, but if my dad comes back and sees you here, I'm fresh meat," Dean said, his voice lowering to compensate for the subject matter.

Castiel narrowed his eyes as though asking a silent question. "Why? Because I'm an angel? Or because I'm in a male vessel?" he asked aloud to clarify what Dean couldn't bring himself to communicate.

He swallowed his pride and shortly answered, "Both." Dean failed to elaborate, but Castiel instinctively understood. "Now do us both a solid and book a room," he ordered.

"I don't understand how to 'book a room'," Castiel complained. "This is never a problem I have encountered as a soldier of heaven."

"Yeah, well, there's a lot of things you have to do now that you're an honorary human," Dean informed him sarcastically. "Like sleep, for instance. Humans need sleep to function normally."

"Yes, I know how the process of sleeping works, Dean. The problem lies in the cognitive structure of my brain. I do not require—"

"Fine. But if you stay here for the night, you can't wake my brother up."

"Oh," Castiel said solemnly. "So this is Sam Winchester?"

Dean paused in reluctance to discuss Sam with this strange new boy. "Yeah, that's Sammy, my kid brother."

Castiel shrugged quickly. "Nothing," he confirmed. "I've only heard you speak his name via prayer."

"So anyone with a halo and a harp can hear my prayers?" Dean asked.

He hesitated in his answer. "No," Castiel said slowly as he began to explain. "For one, we do not all have harps. Angels are warriors of heaven. Take Matthew 13:49. 'So it shall be at the end of the world; the angels shall come forth, and sever the wicked from among the just.' We are more than good samaritans. We fight for what is just and moral. Secondly, not everyone can hear your prayers. God hears and answers all prayers. However, you can also direct a prayer to a specific angel if you wish."

Dean was silent for a moment as though digesting this new information. So every time Dean was in pain or troubled by life's burdens, Castiel was able to hear him? "Is that how you heard me?" Dean asked in curiosity.

"Of a sort," Castiel answered ambiguously. "Although I have never heard you speak before today, I have heard your destiny; it is a grand and noble one. You are very important in executing the end of days."

" _What_?" Dean questioned hotly. "I'm a puppet in Operation Apocalypse? Sorry, but I don't believe in destiny."

Castiel tilted his head in confusion. "What do you believe in?" he asked.

"Free will," Dean said firmly. "Family. Loyalty," he continued. "I believe God has granted us free will to test humankind's loyalty to Him. We choose our fate. We choose our ending. You have to choose every day whether you're going to roll over and die or keep fighting. One thing's for sure, I'm going down swinging."

"That's an interesting concept," Castiel said, pondering this new idea of free will. "I hope that when the time comes, you'll be able to stay true to your values."

They sat in an increasingly awkward silence, with Castiel eyeing Sam's sleeping form suspiciously and Dean staring at the glowing streetlight outside, illuminating the motel room with a dim light. "Alright, well, it's getting late," Dean said when he reached his breaking point of silence. "We have freakin' school tomorrow, and I need to help you blend in."

"Okay," Castiel agreed. "You go on to sleep."

Dean balked at the direct order from this intriguing new creature. "What are you going to do?" he asked.

The angel politely took a seat on edge of the twin bed. "I just thought I would sit here quietly," he replied. Dean hesitated but began to warm to the idea as he realized how tiring his most recent hunt had been. He yawned and let his exhaustion prevail as he crawled onto the mattress and let sleep overtake him.


	2. The Best of Me

Chapter 2: The Best of Me

The day began with a gentle touch unexpectedly lying on Dean's shoulder. Usually, Dean would jolt awake from a nightmare or be shaken into consciousness by his father, but this was a morning for neither. The night had been restful for a change, and Dean pleasantly blinked his eyes to see the growing light outside. He slowly began to take in his surroundings and realized Sam was still asleep in the twin bed next to him. Dean jerked upright to see Castiel precisely where he left him on the edge of the mattress.

Seeing Castiel made him recall the events of the previous night. A few hours before, Dean wasn't entirely sure if the angel was real or not, but this confirmed the truth. Castiel was absolutely real, and it didn't appear as if he were leaving anytime soon. This, of course, left the question as to why he softly brushed Dean's shoulder a few moments before.

"What the hell, Cas?" Dean whispered forcefully. "Were you there all night?"

"Yes," Castiel intoned. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yeah, actually," Dean said, his voice hitching with surprise. "You have anything to do with that?"

"You were very tense and restless last night," Castiel answered simply, "and I dislike seeing others in pain."

His response only confused Dean further. Even for an angel, simply taking away pain seemed out of reach. "How does that even work?" he voiced aloud.

"As a servant of Heaven, I have the ability to heal others," Castiel replied. Then again, Dean thought, he had never met an angel before. Who knows what they were capable of when they were determined to accomplish something.

"Thanks," Dean said in earnest. He could almost forget about the light touch on his shoulder. Almost. "Listen, you should probably get out of here before Sammy wakes up," Dean advised, nodding over at Sam's bed.

"Of course," Castiel said as he stood to straighten his tan trench coat. "I will see you this afternoon."

With a dramatic flare of finality, Castiel disappeared into thin air. Dean breathed a sigh of relief and rolled over to smack his face into the pillow. What on earth had he gotten himself into now? An angel of the Lord had come to play matchmaker under orders from the man upstairs, but for some reason, Dean couldn't stop thinking about how his skin bristled at the angel's delicate touch.

He shook himself out of his reverie, removing the pillow from his face and standing up to make the bed. Deciding it was high time to wake his brother, Dean crept closer to the other bed and shouted, "Rise and shine, Sammy!"

Sam jerked as if he'd heard a gunshot, blinking rapidly into consciousness. He sighed in exasperation. "Dude, really?" Sam asked. Dean replied with a grin, picking up a plastic coffee mug from the floor. Pulling the covers around his shoulders, Sam rolled over to ignore Dean's insistence that he get up.

Dean noted his unusual reluctance to get out of bed, "You sleep okay, Sammy?" he asked.

Sam yawned and replied, "Yeah, actually, it was… peaceful."

"Awesome," Dean responded, throwing the portable coffee cup at Sam and adding, "Grab some wake up juice 'cause we've got to hit the road in like ten minutes." He decided to ignore the bitch face. "Well get to primping, Cinderella, I haven't got all day."

After Sam threw on a flannel and raked a comb through his ever-growing hair, they grabbed their backpacks and took off across the road to get breakfast from a diner. Upon entering, they received the usual "unchaperoned children" looks from the waitstaff before ordering a two short stacks with a side of bacon. Most places couldn't care less how old they were so long as they got their money.

In Sam's seventh grade year, their father had moved them to a dozen motels in various towns across the country. While Dean was usually glad to get away from many of them, Sam found relocating to be annoying in keeping up with his schoolwork. To be perfectly honest, Dean couldn't understand how the kid got all his work done, but he wasn't complaining. Probably the only thing keeping social services off their ass. "So what's on the agenda today?" Dean asked, interested to hear what his brothers education-filled plans were for the day.

Sam looked up as if were recalling the information. "Er—a geometry test and a book report due," he answered. "It's pretty slow day. How about you?"

Dean grimaced uneasily. "Well I have a research paper due in second period that I kind of forgot to do…," he began.

Whatever petulant child demeanor Sam had before instantly morphed into parental concern in about three seconds. "Dean," he chastised. "You know you can't keep doing this, right?"

"Jeez, Sammy, relax," Dean said in defense. "It's a little hard to focus on writing a paper when I'm ganking monsters."

Sam rolled his eyes in response, waiting a few seconds before adding, "Jerk."

"Bitch," Dean quipped with lightning speed.

The morning meal continued with relatively small arguments until they polished off their pancakes and drank their fill of coffee. Then it was off to the hellhole Dean liked to call high school. Contrary to popular belief, Dean loved to learn about the world in a normal, safe environment, but he couldn't see the practical use of dividing polynomial functions or knowing what year the French Revolution began. For someone who wanted to become an accountant or a museum curator, these classes may be relevant, but Dean didn't see the point of trying when none of this applied to him.

After spending the day being criticized and ignored, Dean thought his patience was wearing thin. He did, of course, clench his teeth as the biology instructor lectured him once more on the importance of studying outside of class, but Dean was more than ready to leave by the end of the day.

As soon as the bell rang, Dean eagerly shoved his belongings into his locker and fought his way through the crowd of students to get outside. Knowing he would have to walk Sam down to the motel, Dean searched for his brother in the crowd. As fate would have it, Dean eyes skimmed over a lean figure in a dirty trench coat lurking at the edge of the crowd. The young man's eyes met Dean's, and he heard a deep, soothing voice fill his head. Meet me at the store across from the motel. Dean nodded his understanding in Castiel's direction and turned to find Sam leaving the smaller building next to the high school.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean greeted him. "You ready to go?"

Sam shouldered his backpack and started walking. "Yeah," he replied. "So how was the research paper?"

"Horrible," Dean replied with an expression laced with guilt and revulsion. So maybe he didn't have time in his life to care about education, that didn't mean his conscious was clear about it.

"Maybe one of these days you'll learn," Sam remarked casually. Maybe Sam meant to motivate him, but that didn't seem to work either. He couldn't help the situation. Come hell or high water, Dean would never tell him of the awful things he'd done in the dark to keep food on the table. Most of that was behind him now, but that didn't mean Dean wouldn't have to spend his nights sneaking in and hustling the locals at a dive bar.

When they reached the motel, Dean fished the key from his pocket to unlock the room. The scene was just as they had left it; beds tucked neatly in, weapons stored under furniture, and worn duffel bags on packed on the floor. Home sweet home.

"Listen, Sammy, I've got to run across the street to Goodwill," Dean began. "I'll be back soon, okay?"

Sam curtly nodded in understanding. "Okay," he replied.

With an excuse to leave the motel, Dean hustled across the busy street to meet Castiel in front the clothing store. "What did you even do today?" Dean asked quickly. Never having met an angel before, Dean wondered just what exactly they did with their spare time.

"I waited for you," Castiel responded, unaware he was supposed to "do" anything significant today.

Dean hung his head in embarrassment. "No, I mean—I didn't see you anywhere at school."

"I did not realize my attendance was necessary," Castiel replied.

"Nevermind," Dean said with a shake of his head. "C'mon, Cas."

Upon their entrance, Dean observed a shady looking man furtively glancing at them. The young man was wearing a ratty white shirt, and his pants were sinking far past his waist with thin, silver chains weighing on the pockets. He approached the pair of them nonchalantly, but his demeanor shortly turned aggressive in a matter of seconds after he staggered into Castiel, who was examining the cassette tapes at the front of the store. "Hey, watch where you're going, pal," the guy

Castiel stepped away from the young man in confusion before he could cause any disruption in the store as Dean handled the human interaction. "Just chill out, man," Dean said calmly, though he suspected the assault was intentional.

The guy held up a small, leatherbound object and waved it around. "Oh yeah?" he asked tauntingly. "Too bad I snagged your friend's wallet." At this, he took off through the store's front doors, sending a chime through the room that made Dean want to tear off the bell.

He growled menacingly at the injustice. "I'm gonna rip his lungs out!" Dean shouted, earning him a pointed look from the woman at the register.

"Calm down, there was nothing of import in there," Castiel assured him. Dean chose to ignore the incorrect use of language, but defiantly huffed, debating his odds of winning a fistfight for a wallet. Dean fortunately was unable to contemplate this any longer after Castiel suggested, "In the meantime, why don't you pick out some clothing."

"Yeah... okay," Dean agreed, resigning himself to the clothes rack behind them.

Several minutes and a few flannel shirts later, Dean vetoed his third trench coat. "Sorry, man, you can't wear those things forever," he said.

"But Dean," Castiel protested in favor of his preferred clothing. "They are useful and highly comfortable." Dean shook his head in response, reluctantly agreeing to just the one.

As he was sifting through the racks, Dean almost snorted when he found a pair of silk underwear. "Hey, Cas, why don't you try on these?" he joked, holding the strip of fuchsia cloth in the air.

Castiel tilted his head sideways in something between confusion and curiosity. "Is it customary for young men to wear brightly colored undergarments?" he inquired.

His eyes widened in embarrassment. For someone who claimed to have watched humanity for the last two-thousand years, Castiel didn't seem to know much about fitting in with humans. "No, er, they're for women, really," Dean tried to explain.

"Why would I try on a female's underwear?" Castiel asked, still confused by Dean's suggestion.

"You would be surprised," Dean replied with a roguish expression as he hung the underwear on the rack. He closed his eyes with a dreamy smile across his face as though remembering something pleasant. "Pink. Satin. It's oddly refreshing," he admitted.

"Do I really want to know why you've worn satin undergarments?" Castiel asked derisively as he continued to look through the jeans. Dean's eyebrows rose as he detected the note of sarcasm in Castiel's voice.

"Not really…," Dean answered, though he continued to explain himself anyway. "Her name was Rhonda Hurley. Man, was I whipped. She asked me try them on just for the hell of it. I thought it was pretty sexy, so I did. When I put them on, she stole my jeans. You can imagine how that turned out."

"That must have been very traumatizing, Dean," Castiel said with a distasteful expression that gave Dean an overshare alert. "But how does this apply to me blending in?"

Dean looked up as if scanning his mind for a decent answer. "It doesn't," he concluded. "Unless you want to try them... Which you wouldn't, of course. Why would you? I mean, you heard what happened to me." He gave a self-deprecating laugh and turned to continue sifting through the clothes.

Dean felt as though he needed to clear the air between them, so he began, "Hey, about what happened earlier... You know that guy was just a douchebag, right? That didn't mean anything." For a moment, Dean didn't know if he was apologizing for the other guy or for fighting Castiel's battles for him. He was a soldier of Heaven; surely he could handle a fistfight with a guy looking for trouble. Dean sighed hopelessly. All he had wanted to do was help, but all he succeeded in was losing his temper.

Castiel gave him an understanding nod. "He's not a bad person, Dean," he explained. "He's just... confused. Seeking attention."

Dean looked up from evaluating the shoes rack to meet the angel's eyes. "You really see the best in people, don't you?" he asked.

"Well, as an angel, I've watched humans evolve for years," Castiel began, getting a far-away look in his eyes. "You learn that everyone has a story—a reason for their decisions—and everyone deserves to be loved."

Dean was taken aback by the statement—something he hadn't dared believe since his mother tucked him into bed for the last time. The bitterness of the world twisted and warped his perception of love, and Dean began to think only contented people were worthy of another's affections. "Even me?" Dean asked hopefully.

"Especially you, Dean Winchester," Castiel replied gravely. "Why else would God, Himself, send me to help you?"


	3. The Worst of Me

**Chapter 3: The Worst of Me**

After the events of the previous day, Dean found himself looking forward to having his own guardian angel. At the same time, he had trouble believing Castiel was still there, patiently waiting to help him find his true love. Didn't it seem a little out there that God would want to help Dean Winchester on the dating scene? The orders had to come from somewhere, and Dean began to think just how unworthy he was of love and affection.

He knew it was wrong to wallow in self-pity, but Dean couldn't help himself. He felt guilty for just about everything. Swearing. Arguing. Being selfish. Sure, belligerence was his middle name, but sometimes being a rebel without a cause was more difficult than it looked.

Dean was taken aback by the abrupt, baritone voice interrupting his thoughts. "Everyone has a dark side, Dean," Castiel muttered in a low warble. "It's okay to let someone else see yours."

For a moment, Dean wondered if angels were capable of reading thoughts. "No, it's not, Cas," Dean persisted. "You don't understand because you're not human—and that's okay—but you're just not designed to feel what we feel."

The seraph looked away, his pride clearly offended by Dean's offhand statement. "How many times must I explain this to you?" Castiel asked, inquisitively turning his head as though he were inspecting Dean. "I'm not hardwired the way other angels are. I see things differently. I experience emotion—an awful quality to have when you're born a soldier." Dean could definitely relate to this. Countless times, John had criticized Dean for allowing his emotions to cloud his judgement. Empathy was something that came second nature to Dean.

"I think that's where you and I can connect, Dean," Castiel continued thoughtfully. "Our fathers both thrust this life on us, and we can't change it. But we can make the best of it, and that's what I intend to do."

Maybe it was the cynicism hardwired into him since birth. Dean rolled his eyes in obvious annoyance. "Well, thanks, Mr. Brightside," he said sardonically. "I didn't know you were here to be my shrink."

"I'm serious, Dean," the angel affirmed in a solemn tone. "I know what it's like to be a soldier, and that battle doesn't stop for anyone. But it's okay to express yourself and use your emotions. That's not a setback, it's your superpower."

Dean was unsure how to respond to that. "What the hell, man?" he asked incredulously.

"Think about it this way…," Castiel began. "If you only made decisions based on logic and reason as your father would have you, how many people would you actually save? How many monsters could you kill?"

He posed an interesting question. Dean pondered over it for a few moments. He would like to agree with Castiel, but Dean knew deep down that his father was right. His voice filled of regret and sorrow. "A hell of a lot more," he answered.

Castiel seemed unfazed by Dean's pathetic response, adding optimistic versions of the truth. "Those split second decisions to save a family from an unspeakable evil," he continued. "Those fight or flight hormones that make you want to run. Most humans would be selfish and cruel, leaving others to die instead of facing their fears head on. You sound like a hero to me, Dean Winchester."

The sincerity of his voice somehow broke through barriers Dean didn't know he'd put up. The walls of arrogance came crumbling to the ground, revealing the softness at the very center of his being. No one gave Dean Winchester compliments. The closest thing may have been a pat on the shoulder from his father or a hug from Sammy when he was younger, but words of encouragement were hard to come by. Through those simple words, Castiel had pierced straight through him. You sound like a hero to me, a voice echoed through his mind.

"You want to know why I do all that?" Dean asked slowly as though still mulling over the answer in his mind. "It's not because I'm selfless and brave. Truth is, I can face all those things because my worst fear is what I see in the mirror."

The angel turned his head inquisitively as though examining Dean's soul. For all he knew, that's exactly what Castiel was doing. "You don't think you deserve to be saved?" he asked finally.

Dean winced as he held back the stinging sensation in his eyes. "I am ninety percent crap, man," he admitted. "And the best thing for you do? Run."

The angel stared deeply into him as if he could find the source of this negative self image and defeat it by squinting his eyes. Dean was beginning to wonder when Castiel would tire of reassuring him of his importance. Most people—even his own family—didn't last long before they finally relented and agreed with Dean just to keep from arguing. But there was something persistent about Castiel, as if he was thoroughly convinced Dean was worth trying to understand. "You are so much more than a pawn on your father's chessboard," Castiel continued. "I know you have great respect for the man, as do I with my Father, but you must not let him keep you from living your life to its full potential."

"Right," Dean replied sarcastically. "Because every girl I've ever talked to says I'm cute, but I don't seem like boyfriend material. Whatever the hell that means."

Turning his head to hide his face, Dean rose from the edge of his mattress to stand by the window. He didn't deserve whatever this was. No one had ever bothered to listen before, so why should Castiel care now?

"Yes, I'm sure you are more than just fabric," Castiel replied in a serious tone that made Dean question if that was an attempt at a joke. A smile tugged at his lips and found that even as tears blurred his vision, he felt slightly better about himself. "And these girls are sadly mistaken. You have very endearing qualities that make for a great lifelong relationship."

A nagging, persistent voice still ebbed at the back of his mind. "Oh, yeah? Like what?" Dean voiced aloud. He stared at the ground, taking great care not to turn and face the angel. "Detachment, lack of stable income, daddy issues? Believe me, Cas, I've got more than my share of emotional baggage."

"And that is the beauty of love," Castiel responded firmly. "Overlooking these issues to see the great human being within." Dean was silenced with such powerful words. After all, wasn't that exactly what Castiel was doing?

Dean wiped away the single tear that had managed to slip past and turned to face Castiel. "Well, thanks for the pep talk," Dean said with a half-hearted smile.

Castiel almost felt guilty for what he was about to do, but he knew it was a necessary part of the job. After his conversation with Dean, the angel was better attuned to his strengths and weaknesses. He took pity on humans and their self-doubt. How confusing it must feel to not understand yourself.

After today, Dean should start to realize the dormant strength that rested within him. That is if he could survive the venomous words and cruel situations he would face today. There is a method to this madness, Castiel assured himself. Let the experiment begin.

The day began like any other for Dean Winchester. Diner food for breakfast and speeding that just barely passed under the radar. After dropping off Sam at the junior high school, someone might have had the decency to greet him at the door with, "Welcome to the madhouse."

Walking down the hall to his locker, he didn't realize he was tripped until his palms flashed out on the ground to steady himself. Dean snarled and turned around to see who dared to screw with him on a morning like this. Only no one was there and he was forced to move on.

As he approached the crimson locker, Dean knelt to the ground and began to twist. Most people could remember their combination by muscle memory, but Dean had become skilled at remembering random numbers compiled together by changing schools so often. Usually, he had no trouble getting into a locker. At the age of seven, his father taught him to break into the lock without knowing the combination, so even if he happened to forget…

As Dean tried the combination a fifth time, he glanced around nervously. Everyone was making their way to first period classes, and he still couldn't open this metal monstrosity. Without thinking, Dean punched the locker as hard as he could, sending a sharp pain through his hand. The locker didn't budge.

Grudgingly, Dean went to the office in search of assistance. As he explained the problem to the secretary, she glared at him from atop her glasses in a way that said without speaking, "Aren't you a bit too old to be asking for help over something like this?"

Feeling about two inches tall, Dean followed the secretary down the hallway to his locker. After repeating his combination for for what seemed like the dozenth time, the woman attempted to twist the correct numbers. Two times. Three times. Four times.

"Mister Winchester, it appears your locker has been tampered with," the secretary said sharply. "I'll call maintenance immediately. You should be able to get into your locker by noon. Until then, I will advise you to attend your first period class so you will not be counted absent."

"But what about my books?" Dean protested. "My assignments and everything I need are in there." Well, maybe the assignments weren't completed, but that was beside the point.

"Explain to your instructors that there is an issue with your locker and the office is working on it," she insisted. "Now off you go."

Dean nodded in defeat and trudged across campus to his first period English class. He didn't bother knocking, but found that even in the few minutes delayed by the locker situation, class had already begun.

"I see you decided to show up to my class after all," the teacher began in a disappointed tone. "Have a seat, Dean." He swallowed and found an empty desk at the back of the room, far away from the disapproving eyes of his classmates. "Turn to page 215 in your textbook and get out your homework."

"I don't have a textbook, ma'am," Dean began.

"And why is that?" she asked sharply.

"There was an issue with my locker this morning," he tried to explain. "The office is trying to sort it out."

"Very well," she said with an irritable huff. "For the students who are prepared for class—"

Dean spaced out, and his English teacher was just as happy to ignore him for the next hour and a half. As class was dismissed, she stopped him on the way out of the door. "I advise you to complete your homework and turn it in by next class if you expect full credit."

"Yes, ma'am," Dean said, trying to escape the embarrassment of her classroom.

"And Dean," she added before he could slide out of the door. "Be prepared for class next time."

Dean resisted the urge to roll his eyes until he was in the hall. Biology wouldn't be much easier, but at least the teacher wasn't a raging bitch. He moved along mostly unnoticed through the hallway to find the biology lab.

It took a maximum of ten seconds upon entering the room for a tube of silver nitrate to shatter across the floor. He choked back a colorful exclamation to express an unwanted surprise. The spill fortunately was contained to material things and no one's skin was stained. On the down side, it had ruined the scattered papers and binders, staining them an inky black, much to the dismay of his biology instructor.

"You are aware this lab doubles as a chemistry classroom, Mister Winchester?" he asked sternly.

"Yes, sir," he answered quietly. As if today couldn't get any worse.

The teacher sighed deeply and announced, "Everyone stay seated and do not panic. Get out your homework and be prepared for a discussion on the three types of symbiosis."

Dean stared at the ground, unsure of how to help clean up an acid spill. He internally made a list of things he knew and understood. Ganking monsters? Yep. Grave desecration? Check. Ordinary high school student skills? Nada.

"Stand aside, Mister Winchester," the teacher said in a detached, slightly annoyed tone. "You have a tendency to break things, so you may want to step out of the way."

Dean swallowed hard on the knot forming in his throat. That one cut deep. How often had he actually made the right decision anyway? After all, the extent of his resume was pretty much operating a firearm and killing pests the general population didn't know they had.

The rest of the day didn't fare much better. After sitting alone at lunch and staining his lightly colored plaid shirt, he told he was worthless, given the pity stare, and was overall craptastic. The day might have improved after hearing Sam ramble on about his adventures, but Dean lost interest at the mention of magic tricks. All the stuff his little brother dabbled in was fake anyway.

After realizing Dean was no longer paying him any attention, Sam halted his speech. "I'll just… hit the library then," he said, understanding the need for some alone time.

By the time Dean reached the motel, he didn't feel like hearing another pep talk from Castiel. As if it weren't bad enough he prayed for something as lame as a nice, normal girl, Heaven sent him the world's most socially awkward angel. Dean had to admit, Castiel had a way with words when he wanted to be convincing.

Dean staggered through the motel room door with an expression somewhere between exhaustion and irritability. "Dean, are you alright?" Castiel asked. "You seem… different."

Dean swallowed hard on the harsh words that could describe his day. "I'm fine," he choked out unconvincingly.

"You don't seem fine," Castiel said slowly, approaching Dean with caution and care.

As the angel neared his shoulder, Dean jerked away. "I said I'm fine, Cas," he shouted defensively. His thick exterior began to crumble under Castiel's analytical squint. His frustration grew, and Dean found himself getting louder with each statement as though desperate to be heard. "I'm fine. I mean, who wouldn't be? I'm just as useless, dumb, and pathetic as everyone thinks I should be anyway. So why bother trying to be anything but a hunter? Because all I'm ever going to be good at is destroying things?" In a fit of frustration, Dean flung the keys to the Impala against the motel room wall. The small clink as they fell to the ground wasn't nearly as satisfying as he thought it would be.

When he didn't hear Castiel's reassuring voice immediately dispute the claims, Dean gazed up in confusion. "That was the purpose of this exercise," the gruff voice responded.

"Excuse me?" Dean asked heatedly.

"To test the limits of your patience," Castiel said simply as if that should clear everything up.

Dean blinked slowly in disbelief and building anger. "So you're telling me that every awful thing that's happened to me today has been because of you?" he questioned.

The angel pondered this for a moment before replying, "Well... yes and no."

"I'm sorry, you're going to have to be more specific!" Dean shouted.

"No, I did not cause you to spill marinara sauce on your shirt at lunch today," Castiel said matter-of-factly, as if that were the main factor in why Dean had a bad day. "That was entirely by accident. However, I am generally responsible for your bad day."

"Responsible how?" Dean asked in a quieter voice. He just wanted answers. Why would someone he trusted so much in such a short period of time betray him this way? "I thought you were supposed to be using this angel mojo of yours to make me fall in love."

"In due time," Castiel replied tersely. "This was a test, Dean."

Defeat filled his voice as he said, "Well mark me down with a failing grade because I've had it up to here with your wax on, wax off crap."

"Dean!" Castiel said sharply. "This isn't a matter of passing or failing. It's a matter of discovering your dark side. Not only discovering it, but learning and accepting it. Because no one can truly know you if you don't know yourself first."

"Oh, well thank you for the philosophy lesson—," Dean began.

He was cut off by Castiel who was having none of his self-loathing crap tonight. "This is a testament to your character, Dean. Nothing defines you better than your attitude when you have plenty and your patience when you have nothing."

"So it's only going to get worse?" he asked quietly.

Castiel mulled over the question longer than he should have. Under normal circumstances, Castiel would test the subject to exhaustion before allowing them to move on, but Dean already acknowledged his flaws too often. "No, I believe today was sufficient," Castiel replied. Besides, he collected enough information from today's experiment. "You appear to become sensitive when confronted with conflict. This bothers you, so you compensate for these intense emotions by shouting to have your voice heard and dominate your opposition. I have news for you, my friend; though you treat it as a weakness, feeling deeply is your strength."

Dean was clearly confused by the end of his ramblings of personality analysis. "What the hell are you talking about?" he asked.

"Most people spend their lives neglecting others and focusing on themselves," Castiel explained patiently. "You have the natural ability to sense emotions in others. Being raised in the hyper-masculine life of a hunter, this skill was never fully developed, and until now, you have probably never realized this."

Dean's brow was still furrowed in confusion, but he appeared to be giving his statement some consideration. Finally, Dean spoke: "Yeah, actually. All it's ever caused me is frustration. What does that have to do with dating?"

As if on cue, the angel delivered a thorough textbook answer. "Building strong relationships is about being attuned to your partner's thoughts and emotions," he said simply. "If you learn to understand your personal feelings, you are more successful in building strong relationships, romantic or otherwise."

Dean took a few moments to internalize the information. "Awesome," he finally said.

"Well, I suggest completing your homework," Castiel said. This earned an eye roll and a pointed look from Dean, but he continued: "You've done well today, Dean. And don't worry—we'll find your true love." Dean certainly hoped so. They would certainly have to be well worth the challenge of today.


End file.
